


Long & Lost

by queengabby



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Children, Alternate Universe - Two Inquisitors, Angst and Humor, Comedy, Drama & Romance, F/M, Implied Relationships, Presumed Dead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-08-24 01:27:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8350891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queengabby/pseuds/queengabby
Summary: After receiving a letter from Varric, Fenris travels with his daughter to Skyhold, hoping to find Hawke. What he finds instead is two Inquisitors who share the anchor, a familiar dwarven friend who seems to own Thedas' entire postal service, and honestly, a bit of a headache.Meanwhile, Hawke gains a visitor from her youth in the raw fade, who insists on helping her find the exit. A rift sits waiting for her to leap out of, and into a place much more familiar...//revamp of an older fic posted and deleted with the same title.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had posted this story about a year(?) ago but deleted it because I didn't like the way it was headed, and figured I would never finish it. I went back after thinking of a new way to finish the story and revisited the file on my computer, made some editing changes, and kind of liked the new direction it was taking.  
> So if this one seems familiar, it's because it's a story that was already posted here!
> 
> I will be adding tags as chapters are added.
> 
> Enjoy!

_“Lost in the fog, these hollow hills_  
_Blood running hot, night chills_  
_Without your love I'll be_  
_So long and lost, are you missing me?”_

* * *

               Two weeks after the Inquisition’s assault on Adamant’s Fortress, Fenris received a letter from a goshawk.

It was obvious whom it was from, since there were only a handful of people who knew of Fenris’ whereabouts. Out of those people, there were only four who had access to a falconer, or who were brave enough to handle a goshawk themselves.

And only one person used a wax insignia with a crossbow engraved into it.

Opening the letter, Fenris immediately recognized Varric’s writing – measured, angular, clean – but also took note of the various ink stains that dotted the page at beginnings of certain sentences.

              He didn’t need to read it to know something was wrong, really. They had known each other for over a decade. It was out of character for Varric to leave a mess.

              “Papa?” a small voice called from his right. Fenris briefly closed the letter, looking at the small bundle of blankets next to him.

              “You should be asleep, little one.” He replied, but moved to gently brush the hair from the child’s face. The tent they were in shook with the wind.

              “I’m not tired.”

              “You will be tomorrow if you do not sleep.” He insisted, tucking the blanket securely under the child’s chin.

              “What’s that?” the child asked, watching the stained paper in her father’s hand.

              “ _Charlotte_.” Fenris warned but the small bundle insisted.

              “Please papa, I will sleep if you tell me.”

              He let out a long sigh, and conceded. “It is a letter from Varric.” When Charlotte blinked expectantly at him, he couldn’t help but smile. “I have yet to read it, that is all I can tell you.”

              “When you finish reading, please tell me papa.”

              “I will tell you after you rest.” He agreed, and she believed him, closing her eyes to sleep.

              After a moment of silence, Fenris pried the letter open again, counting the pages before starting at the beginning.

              Fenris felt his gut clench when the first thing the letter had was an apology. Then, it explained the recent escapades of the Inquisition, focusing on events in the Western Approach. Varric went into great detail over the nature of the Breach in his past letters, so Fenris was familiar enough with what matters the Inquisition was dealing with. But this letter had no hint at jokes or sarcasm, describing the events at Adamant Fortress and the dealings with the Nightmare. At the bottom of the third page, Fenris stopped breathing.

              A mix of words became stuck in his head. Fenris found himself re-reading the letter to make sure he wasn’t mistaken.

 

_“…fell into The Fade”_

_“Hawke”_

“ _stayed behind…”_

_“Nightmare”_

_“the breach sealed”_

 

              Fenris felt something in his chest snap, he gasped, quickly glancing at Charlotte who slept next to him. He scrambled for the tent flap, opening it and crawling out onto the dirt. There was a thin layer of frost cooling over the grass, making his palms feel feverish.

He was going to be sick.

 

He was

Going to—

Fall

 

Hawke.

Her voice, a whisper in his mind, urging him to stay safe.

Laughing when he held her, smiling when he spoke.

 

_Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you._

He was—

 

Lost.

 

              Fenris didn’t move for what seemed like an eternity. Hours passed. He was still – his forehead pressed to the grass, unable to overcome the grief that was gripping his heart like a vice. His wrist, bound by a red strip of fabric began to dampen from the ground. But when the birds began their morning song, and he felt the warmth of the sun mingle with the dew in the grass, he knew he couldn’t stay.

              Charlotte stirred in the tent, and so Fenris rose, aching in his muscles and in his soul. He collected himself, and opened the flap. He could not idle much longer.

              “Good morning Papa!” Charlotte smiled, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Fenris’ throat tightened, and when she reached for a hug, he held her in his arms to prevent himself from weeping. He couldn’t tell her. He would not tell his daughter about her mother’s fate.

              So he kept it a secret as they packed up their belongings. Charlotte was too distracted by the flowers blooming, and the reflection on the lake to remember her interest in his letter. It would be better, Fenris thought, to keep her oblivious. He wanted to allow Charlotte to still look upon the world with her eyes full of wonder, rather than abandonment.

As they walked, Fenris realized that only one course of action remained. His moment came when a caravan stopped to offer them goods near a village of refugees. Charlotte gripped the edge of her father’s cloak, and Fenris casually stepped forward as a barrier between his daughter and the stranger.

              “Well met, sir! I have some fruits and vegetables here, fit for travellers. A bit more expensive because of the…” He glanced at Charlotte and cupped his hand to his face, shielding his words from the child while whispering to Fenris. “The big green hole in the sky, you see.”

              He watched the merchant cautiously. The man was in his sixties at least, spry for his age but with no weapons on hand, and a harmless smile on his face. Fenris rolled his eyes, realizing the man was innocent – and paid the merchant a few coin to buy Charlotte a fresh piece of fruit. “You seem like a man who meets colorful folk.” Fenris said after taking a bite of the fruit to test it, before handing it to Charlotte. The merchant didn’t seem to notice his caution, and instead, broke out in a smile at Fenris’ words, excited at the prospect of speaking of his travels.

              “Of course, sir!” he clapped his hands together. “With the refugees, I try to reach all the camps and villages I can find without getting into trouble. I steer clear of the fights, you see, but I deliver all over Fereldan!”

              Fenris took out a scrap of paper, unfolding it to reveal a rough drawing of a fortress near the mountains.

              “Any chance you’ve been to Skyhold?”

 


	2. Chapter 2

_“_ _Is it too late to come on home?  
Are all those bridges now old stone?”_

* * *

               “Inquisitor Trevelyan,” the Commander greeted, walking past the pavilion and into the gardens. Lady Trevelyan was discussing something with Morrigan, who was keeping a watchful eye on Kieran as he explored the flowers eagerly. Trevelyan turned, noticing it was Cullen, and smiled.

              “Commander, what brings you to the outside world? Done with battling paperwork?” she asked, and he heard Morrigan let out a small laugh. He felt his face warm but he ignored it, vowing he would lecture her later – in private.

              “There is a matter at the War Table that should be discussed with Inquisitor Lavellan – about Adamant Fortress.” He gave her a brief description. “I spoke to Krem, and he said the Chargers could take care of it.”

              “Take care of it? You mean destroy it?” she asked, and Cullen nodded. Trevelyan looked at Morrigan who only raised a brow.

              “I did not think the Fortress needed to be ‘taken care of’.” Morrigan intercepted, looking from the Commander to the Inquisitor, “Have either of you notified Alistair?”

              “I did not think it would be important to him.” Cullen replied, although it was rare for the sorceress to speak to anyone directly other than the two Inquisitors or Leliana.

              “Josephine informed me that there are still Grey Wardens coming back from the fortress even now.” Trevelyan explained, and then a smile tugged at her lips. “Transporting the able and injured is not easy with the constant fear of demon…things.”

              “Well put, Inquisitor.” Cullen said, struggling not to smile.

              “If I were you, I would mention it to Alistair before he leaves. The Grey Wardens are thinning in numbers. More specifically, they are running out of places to hide.” Morrigan folded her arms over her chest. “You do not have to take a sorceresses’ advice – but perhaps it would be wise to keep the fortress for an emergency.”

              “I would like to see the Wardens rebuild.” Trevelyan agreed. “Thank you Morrigan, for your input.” She said, and Morrigan gave a casual bow, her attention falling back to her son.

              Trevelyan gave her leave from the witch, and followed Cullen who had begun walking towards the main entrance.

              “Have you seen Lavellan and Alistair?” the Inquisitor asked, and Cullen glanced at her.

              “Lavellan is awaiting your arrival at the War Table to discuss details. Alistair was on the battlements at sunrise, but I think he may be speaking with the other Wardens who have arrived.”

              “Waiting for the Hero of Fereldan, no doubt.” Trevelyan said, opening the door to the main hall. Cullen glanced at Varric, standing by the fireplace with his head bowed low. Realizing his distraction, he turned his head to see Trevelyan watching the dwarf as well.

              _Where’s Hawke?_

Trevelyan could remember Varric’s eyes emptying, losing his last strand of hope when it was declared that Hawke had stayed behind. She had been taken aback by his reaction; the enormity of the grief struck him like a blow to the head. He bowed his head, and lowered his eyes, and Trevelyan couldn’t _breathe._

              Cullen escorted her further along to Josephine’s office, pausing at the small niche that divided the hall and the Ambassador’s room.

              “We’ve lost so many, Cullen.” Trevelyan murmured, out of breath. She was recovering from an inevitable defeat. She touched his arm, and he turned to brush a gloved hand over her cheek.

              “Do not give up quite yet.” He comforted her, but she did not smile.

              “Hawke – she –” a shaky sigh divided her words. She remembered the way Hawke looked at her, trying to stay strong but _terrified._ The spider demon was an impossible foe, born from nightmares that plagued all their thoughts. But she and Levellan – they had sacrificed the Champion of Kirkwall. They had all agreed to it, and Trevelyan knew the guilt building in the other Inquisitor’s eyes. Hawke had smiled despite her quivering lip, despite her labored breathing, despite everything.

              _Say goodbye to Varric for me._

“How do you sacrifice someone without feeling like a monster?” Trevelyan asked, choking on her words.

              “Inquis—Trevelyan,” Cullen sighed, and then lowered himself so his lips were at her ear, speaking her given name gently. She looked up at him, and he rested his lips on her temple, not quite a kiss. “Do not bear the burden alone.”

              They stayed entwined for another moment, before they realized where they were. Trevelyan disentangled herself from the Commander, and smiled.

              “Shall we continue?” she asked, opening the door to the Diplomat’s office.

              “There you are, my lady!” Josephine called from her desk, writing diligently as always. She stood and walked with Trevelyan and Cullen as they made their way down the hall. The colossal doors leading to the war table creaked with the effort, the slam echoing through the hall despite their continuous efforts to seal it quietly.

              Upon entering the chambers, Trevelyan noticed Inquisitor Lavellan standing near Leliana, his hands behind his back as he spoke quietly with her. Her male counterpart glanced up upon Trevelyan and the Commander’s loud arrival. He gave Cullen a nod and then walked over to the other Inquisitor.

              “How are you?” he asks her, and it is a special bond they share. Both of them cursed with a half mark on their corresponding palms – both of them unsure of what had caused their joined wardship of the anchor until it had been revealed at Adamant. The two of them had both acted at the same time, grabbing the mysterious orb carried by Corypheus but colliding with each other instead. Trevelyan had not found the situation very funny, but Lavellan had found something morbidly humorous about sharing the mark with someone else. Trevelyan figured his type of attitude is why he got along so well with a certain Tevinter Altus mage.

              “I think you know already.” She lamented, and he reached his hand out to squeeze her arm reassuringly. Trevelyan accepted the gesture without hesitation. It had not been easy in the beginning, to rely on a perfect stranger, but she had come to trust Lavellan like family. He was much gentler than her, much more optimistic. She feared what the Inquisition would look like if he had not been there to support her.

              “I still feel the need to check, you know that.” He answered.

              “I do. Thank you.” She replied with a relieved smile.

              They had turned their attention to their advisors once the group had settled. Cullen immediately pointed out the fortress in the Western Approach.

              “The Inquisition destroyed some of the fortress already, but we can go either way.” Cullen explained, putting his hands on the pommel of his blade.

              “It doesn’t feel right to destroy it, but I don’t want any demons coming in either.” Trevelyan said, glancing at Lavellan. “How many Wardens remain at the fortress? Is it still safe?”

              “Leliana?” Lavellan asked, turning his gaze toward the Spymaster. Leliana glanced up from the war table and put her hands behind her back.

              “For the moment, only a dozen Wardens remain – they are the last group who plan on coming to Skyhold before they travel with Alistair to Weisshaupt.” She glanced down at the map markers. “As for safety, I doubt it is any more dangerous than other places you have visited.”

              “We could potentially rebuild the fortress,” Josephine chimed in. “Ask nobles to put forward funds to keep it under the Inquisition’s control.”

              Cullen intercepted, the soldier side of him rising up under pressure. “Though we cannot forget it sits almost on top of the Abyssal Rift, which is rumored to run as far as the Deep Roads.”

              “But it runs deep, not far.” Leliana said, turning towards the Commander. “Darkspawn cannot climb an abyss.”

              Lavellan quirked a smile. “Not yet.”

              “Please do not frighten Josie anymore than necessary, Lavellan.” Leliana sighed, but her tone was calm.

              Trevelyan spoke again, “The only darkspawn that could possibly make that climb is an archdemon, since it could fly. As it stands, Corypheus and his red lyrium dragon are nowhere near the fortress.”

              “So it is a yes to rebuild, then?” Josephine asked, but Trevelyan hesitated.

              “I still don’t understand why anyone would put a fortress on top of an Abyss.” Trevelyan conceded. “However, it remains a threat, even under Inquisition control.”

              “Then it is a yes to destroy it?” Cullen insisted. Lavellan watched the Ambassador and Commander exchange looks. Trevelyan looked to him for support.

              Lavellan closed his eyes, frowned, and opened them again. “I’m—”

              Suddenly, a groan escaped the enormous door as it opened, and both Inquisitors turned in time for the advisors to let out their displeasure at the interruption.

              Trevelyan went on high alert, waiting for the culprit to enter the room, lightning magic crackling at her fingertips and then –

              “Cole!” Lavellan exclaimed, Trevelyan quelling the static in her hand quickly as her counterpart took a step toward the door.

              She could hear Cullen a heartbeat away, “Maker’s breath,” he murmured, relieved as he sheathed his sword.

              “Cold shadow approaches, a candle in hand.” Cole entwines his fingers together as he speaks, “Blue blurring, looking for green and stone, he watches the skies – the wolf wants the truth.”

              Trevelyan tried to untangle some of meaning behind what Cole was saying, but loud chatter behind the door interrupted her thoughts.

              “Look I know you have a duty to fulfill, but I’m not lying Seeker.” Varric’s voice carried through the hall, dull and scratchy.

              “What you must tell the Inquisitors will have to wait, they are in the –”

              Varric threw up his hands, shaking his head. Trevelyan saw the exhaustion on his face, the dark circles under his eyes – he was unwell. “This can’t _wait,_ didn’t you hear Cole?”

              “Cole? What did the boy say?” Cassandra demanded, just as Lavellan rounded the door with Tevelyan and the advisors on his heels.

              “Inquisitors.” Varric greeted, relief in his voice. His eyes were wistful, and tired. “Cole’s with you, right? Did you hear him?” he asked Lavellan, and then looked towards Trevelyan, rushing his words before Cassandra had a chance to block him.

              “It’s alright, Cassandra, it is no trouble.” Lavellan raised his hand, and walked over to Varric. “We heard him.” He said, as Cassandra stepped back. “What’s this about a stone? A wolf?”

              Varric sighed, pressing his fingers into his temples before looking up at Lavellan. “It’s Fenris.”

              Cassandra interrupted, her eyes wide, “ _Fenris?_ You mean the one from,”

              “From Kirkwall.” Cullen offered, his voice hard.

              “Yes Fenris, the broody white-haired elf with the big sword and no shoes.” Varric said as if he had explained it a million times before, and then looked at Trevelyan. “Cole just told you what he told me, and _admittedly_ it took me a minute to figure out what he was mumbling about, but Fenris is on his way.”

              “How do you know?” she asked, and Varric raised his hand, counting on his fingers.

              “It’s been three weeks since I sent him a letter about Hawke.” Trevelyan noticed the strain he put on her name, and saw Lavellan look at her in her peripheral vision. “By now, I should have gotten a reply. Cole’s _poetry_ makes it clear that he’s on his way here – to Skyhold – and if I know my friend I know he won’t be happy.”

              “Then that means –” Cassandra started.

              “He’s here.” Cole finally said, and everyone looked at him. “Fenris. He’s at Skyhold with another.”

              “Inquisitors!” a soldier opened the door from Josephine’s office. He stopped mid-step, a look of horror on his face, realizing that he walked in on official business. “A-and the Commander, and the Ambassador, and the—”

              “No time for formalities,” Cullen ordered. The recruit pressed his fist to his chest and bowed in apology. “I’m sorry Commander. Your worships, there is an urgent matter at the gates.”

              Trevelyan was overwhelmed, unable to reply. Lavellan took a step forward and didn’t even skip a beat when he replied. “Let him in.”

 

* * *

 

              The colossal corpse of the spider demon fell with a screech that made her head rattle. As if in slow-motion, the body crashed to the Fade floor. It was magnificent, really. And, thankfully, it was dead.

              Hawke couldn’t tear her eyes away from it.

              She felt like her heart was in her throat – as if the monster would rise again and she would be stabbed in some unfortunate place like her stomach or her eye. Now _that_ would be a finale. It reminded her a lot of when the Arishok fell, and Fenris had gathered her in his arms while she bled out. But the demon remained still, and Fenris was nowhere to be seen.

              She dropped to her knees. Her own weight was too much to bear, so she let herself fall. Everything was exhausting. She had no power left, and wondered idly if this is how it felt to be a corpse.

              “Hopefully no demony things come out to kill me.” Hawke called out to the emptiness of the Fade. She sighed, closing her eyes.

              “Well I think you’re doing everything right – looking unconscious usually wards off demons. They think dead things are boring.” Came a voice familiar only to Hawke. She turned, her entire body aching, her head throbbing.

              “So I’m hallucinating too, then.” She conceded, even though her heart betrayed her by beating a little faster. She knew that voice like it was her own – but she hadn’t heard it in what seemed like an eternity.

              “Not really. Actually, maybe.” The voice joked again, and Hawke turned to see the figure sitting next to her.

              The man who died in Lothering. The man she hadn’t seen for fourteen years. He was sitting next to her, and with little ceremony either. The man smiled, and makers _breath_ but she wanted to believe it was possible. It was her father, Malcolm Hawke.

              “You have got to be joking.” Hawke said, laughing despite her injuries and apparent loss of sanity. She lay down on the ground again, “The Fade’s going to have to try harder than that, I’m afraid.” In truth, the Fade had tried _too_ hard, and she was struggling to keep some sort of composure at the sight of her _dead father_.

              “Aren’t you being a little rude? I come here out of the goodness of my heart _and_ soul because you wouldn’t stop crying over a little spider demon.” Malcolm feigned injury, pouting.

              “Little!” she said, louder than she meant, but continued nonetheless. “I’d be more thankful if you showed up _before_ the demon was dead.”

              “Oh,” he waved his hand in dismissal, a mannerism that often caught her attention while she grew up. It was a wonder her mother didn’t strangle him daily. “You were _fine,_ I knew you could handle it.”

              “That makes one of us.” Hawke mumbled. “Look, I’ll fight you later but right now I—”

              “Don’t you want to talk to your old man?” Malcolm asked, and Hawke merely sighed.

              “I’m tired.”

              “Hello tired, I’m father.”

              Hawke groaned. “Even the hallucination of you is annoyingly _persistent._ What do you want?”

              “I want to help, my dear.” Malcolm said, his voice more serious but still a tad amused. “And it starts with getting you off the dirty floor.”

              “Everything hurts, I would rather not.”

              “Did you somehow lose your magic abilities when I blinked?” he nagged.

              “No.” she mumbled, feeling like a petulant child.

              “Well I’m sure you can find a few potions lying about. You are quite messy when you fight, you know that?” Malcolm lectured, and Hawke tried not to smile.

              “Sorry, I was busy trying not to die.”

              “Apology accepted.”

              Hawke laughed then, a short sad thing. She sat up and rubbed her arm where it bled. Taking her time, she stood on her feet and looked at her surroundings. Malcolm straightened his robes as he joined her.

              “Andraste’s ass, you are definitely my father if you’re wearing _that_ outfit.” Hawke gawked at the robes he used to court her mother. She didn’t know if it was a matter of pride.

              “My bequest?” he asked, looking down at his clothes. “I think they’re rather dashing.”

              “Sometimes I wonder if mother ran away with you because she loved you, or because she felt bad for your sense of dress.” Hawke joked, before noticing a glint of glass nearby. She walked toward it, albeit slowly, and realized with utter relief that it was a lyrium potion.

              “Father is always right.” Malcolm chimed in as she picked up the potion.

              “I must have dropped it when I was fighting.” It was a good excuse as any; especially with the man who called himself Malcolm watched her. The mana was refreshing: like a dip in a cold pond, like the spitting mist of the waves at the Wounded Coast. She downed the entire bottle, the glass clinking against her gauntlet. Hawke pressed her free hand to her head, letting her healing magic cure her of her headache. She hooked the empty bottle to her belt when her head wasn’t so cloudy, and took her time in healing the rest of her aches and scrapes.

              “Good thing I’m fast, that demon would’ve had me for breakfast.” She said as she healed, hating the silence between her and the man she _still_ couldn’t trust. Hawke wished it were her father. Wished with all her heart, and even let herself hope that he was. She sat down, touching her hand to her bleeding leg.

              Malcolm kneeled down in front of her and smiled, all scruffy beard and dark hair. She felt like she was sinking. His eyes, the same shade she inherited, were clear and without worry.

              “How do you know what he looks like?” she asked, forcing a smile.

              Malcolm’s own smile dissipated. “What do you mean?”

              “My father, Malcolm.”

              He looked exasperated for a moment before he laughed. “Did I teach you to be this distrustful, or did you inherit your mother’s paranoia?”

              “Her caution.” Hawke clarified, and her father quirked another smile, tilting his head. He had always been a tad insensitive, which he usually made up for in charm.

              “I am not in the Fade as you are,” he explained, holding up his hand. “You fell in physically.” Malcolm flipped his hand, examining his palm. “For most people, it is their spirit that interacts with this place. Either they die, or they’re dreaming.”

              “Well I’m not dreaming, clearly. You’ve been gone fourteen years, do spirits really remain in the Fade that long?”

              “Sometimes,” Malcolm said, “It’s said that they return to the Maker’s side, but the Fade is so unknowable that I’m not really sure myself.”

              “Am I dead?” Hawke asked suddenly.

              “You’re not dead.” He reassured her, biting back a smile. She leaned her head back on a rock.

              “That’s not quite reassuring.” Hawke closed her eyes again. She was comfortable now that her injuries were healed. Though she had depleted a grand majority of her mana. The only thing she could do now was wait.

              She drifted for a while, trying to calm herself with memories of Lothering. The windmill’s quiet clicking above her as she lay in the field. The wind brushed the grass around her, mussing her hair and kissing her eyelashes. She looked up at the setting sun, and sat up with a start. Where in the world – ?

              The stale air of the Fade, the distant screams of spirits had both disappeared. Steep, rocky stalagmites and green sky were completely gone, as if they had never existed at all. Replaced with streaks of orange through a clouded yellow sky. The air – she had only dreamed of something so clear and fresh.

              “It was always so quiet here.” She heard Malcolm speak, and she stood up.

              “This isn’t – where am I?” she spoke, panic rising.

              He hushed her, touching her arm. “You’re dreaming, my dear.”

              “I don’t understand.” She admitted, looking down at her boots brushing the grass. Were these her boots? Maker, her feet looked small.

              “Your body is in the Raw Fade, your spirit is in a Fade Dream. This place has manifested in your mind.”

              “Is that even possible?” Hawke brushed the grass with her fingers. She stood, and spotted two children playing outside of the gate leading to the Hawke residence. Her heart was stuck in her throat, she squeezed her hands, but her gauntlets were gone, replaced by a child’s hands, small and pale. She remembered this place.

              “Bethany!” Hawke called, and she watched in shock as the image of Bethany stopped running, waving at her sister with a smile on her face. Carver bumped into his twin, holding her arm before spotting Hawke as well. He gave a begrudging wave before pushing Bethany along, chasing her again.

              “But Bethany, she –” Hawke couldn’t find the words as she watched her sister. “I’ve dreamt of this a thousand times,” she laughed once, brushing the tears from her eyes. “I don’t know why I’m crying now, Maker.”

              Malcolm and Hawke watched the twins play until the sun completely set and it grew dark. The wind brushed past Hawke’s cheek again and again, reminding her of her drying tears.

              “Was she in pain?” she asked, breaking the silence, and glancing up at her father.

              “No.” he said, and smiled. “I was upset at first, when she died, but she was protecting Leandra so I…” He closed his eyes, and then opened them, glancing at Hawke. “I understood why she did it.”

              “And mother?” Hawke asked, and her surroundings blurred. She looked around again, recognizing the décor of the library in a familiar estate. The Lothering sky had disappeared, replaced by the high ceilings of her home in Kirkwall. The air was stale with mothballs and old books. She brushed her hands along the spine of a book, long and slender fingers, more recognizable but still without armor or dried blood. She took out her favorite book and felt the weight in her hands as if it were real, opening it to the first page and seeing the familiar tea stain on the cover page. It broke her heart.

              “She was sorry.” Malcolm finally answered, and Hawke watched him descend the stairs from the mezzanine. They were both bathed in the orange light from the fireplace. “She felt guilty, and she pushed that onto you until it was too late.”

              “It’s all exactly as I remember it.” She gestured to the room around them and he nodded. “It’s almost frightening.”

              “Not everything is the same. Just the things you remember properly.” He replied and she returned the book to the shelf.

              They exited the library, and Hawke examined the main hall. It was as Malcolm had said – some things were missing – edges were fuzzy where she couldn’t remember exactly what was supposed to be there. She ascended the staircase to her bedroom; taking note of the engraving Isabela left in the railing being much bigger than it had been in reality.

              “Glad to see your friends are spreading their creativity,” Malcolm joked over her shoulder.

              “That’s what Isabela does. A lot of spreading.” Hawke said reflexively, though she regretted speaking so plainly about such a thing with her father.

              “Hey!” Isabela said, appearing by the staircase, sitting on the ledge. She wasn’t completely rendered, her boots blurred and unclear. “I’m trying to make a good impression, here.”

              “That’s a nice hat,” Malcolm commented, and Isabela bowed, giving Hawke a knowing smile. Of course she remembered the hat.

              “Breaking into my house again, are we?” Hawke replied casually, and she heard Isabela’s clear laugh before the scene changed again. Her laugh echoed in Hawke’s ears as she looked around the forest. Tall trees that looked as if they reached the sky surrounded Hawke and Malcolm. Hawke turned her head and noticed they stood near a small tent.

              “Will she remember that?” Hawke asked, already knowing the answer. She could hear leaves rustling on the trees while Malcolm shook his head.

              “This is your dream, not Isabela’s.”

              “A pity. She would’ve liked you.” Hawke smiled, curiosity getting the better of her as she opened the tent flap.

              “You are impatient as always.” A voice said from inside the tent. The dream paused: the wind stopped, the trees went quiet, and flecks of dust caught in the breeze were at a standstill. There was only his voice and her heartbeat, loud in her ears.

              “Fenris.” She said, dropping to her knees. Hawke could only see his back and her chest felt tight. His hair was pulled in a short messy ponytail, barely long enough to keep up. She could see his jaw at this angle, the lines of lyrium decorating his throat.

              She went to touch his shoulder but he could not be reached. Every time she moved her arm, he looked further away. “Fenris?” Hawke turned to Malcolm. “Why can’t I see his face?” she asked, feeling breathless.

              “The Fade is an expression of your thoughts, my dear. If a part of you doesn’t really want to see his face, the dream won’t allow you.”

              “But I do!” Hawke said, tears stinging her eyes. She swore in frustration, finally letting her hands fall to her knees.

              Motion returned to her surroundings, as tree branches continued rattling against each other along the branches. She watched the sunlight break through the leaves, leaving shadow on the tent. Fenris kept his back to her, moving something out of reach. Hawke closed her eyes, unable to watch any longer.

              “Why are you doing this?” she asked, the question directed at Malcolm.

              “Me?” he asked, and then laughed. “I’m just a visitor in a dream! Not everything is your father’s fault.”

              “Why are you following me? Why are you helping me? I don’t understand.” She admitted. The pause was long, only interrupted by Malcolm’s sigh.

              “My dear, you have been through so much and I am immeasurably proud.” He said, and Hawke opened her eyes to see him properly. “I knew you would do great things. Of course, because _I’m_ your father.” He joked but then Hawke scoffed, biting back a laugh. He smiled in return, becoming serious again. “What I mean is that you have done _everything_ you can despite the threat on your own happiness. I will not have my eldest die from starvation in the raw fade. It’s just insulting.”

              Hawke laughed then, a sad thing. So many feelings were swimming in her head, she didn’t know what to think.

              The scene changed again, the view of Kirkwall from a golden field.

              “I didn’t think you liked fields so much.” Malcolm commented, and Hawke breathed another laugh.

              She felt something shift in her arms, and looked down. Hawke gasped, pressing her fingers to the bundle’s cheek. “Charlotte,” she breathed. Charlotte yawned in the golden light, and Hawke smiled. “My little Lottie.” The child did not speak, too tired to open her eyes.

              “A child?” Malcolm asked, and Hawke nodded silently.

              Hesitantly, Malcolm inspected Charlotte in Hawke’s arms. The child stirred, her green eyes opening to watch Malcolm. “She is only young. I haven’t seen her in a while. She would be four now… ” Hawke spoke with guilt caught in her voice. “I left her in Fenris’ care after the conclave explosion. I had to…” she trailed off, unable to look at her father. “I didn’t want him to die for me. I had to.”

              “She is beautiful.” Malcolm spoke warmly, resting his hand on her shoulder, and Hawke’s chest swelled with pride. “And I’m sure she cries and poops just like every other lovely baby.” He added, and Hawke scoffed. He was more ridiculous than she had ever been.

              The scenery changed again, but Hawke paid little mind to it. She could hear children’s gentle laughter, could feel the brush of long grass along her shins. She watched her father, and spoke over the sound, the wind kissing the high of her cheeks. “I don’t want to stop dreaming, but I…” she closed her eyes.

              A red scrap of cloth wrapped around the sharp edges of a gauntlet.

              _I am yours_

              Hawke peered back up at her father, who gave her a wistful smile. “You are still dreaming. Let yourself rest for a while. When you wake, we will find a way.”

She knew it wasn’t wise. The longer she spent with Malcolm, the more she thought it was real. The more she _wanted_ it to be real. Everything in her instincts told her not to, but –

              Hawke believed him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which i attempt sentimentality

_“Is it too late to come on home  
Can the city forgive, I hear its sad song”_

* * *

 

              The gate was slow to open into Skyhold. For a place holding hundreds of refugees, Fenris found it contrary to have the door closed off from one man – namely himself. A soldier inside kept eyeing something off his shoulder, and then Fenris remembered the weapon on his back. Perhaps it actually _was_ the giant sword he wielded.

              He felt a gentle tug at the bottom of his cloak and he glanced down at Charlotte.

              “Papa, I’m scared.” She murmured. He didn’t even blink, crouching down and picking her up in his arms.

              His daughter being scared of an army was understandable.

              The entire Inquisition being afraid of a single man was laughable and – admittedly – a bit worrying.

How ironic, Fenris thought, to be at the gate of the group who was instrumental in abandoning the Champion of Kirkwall in the Fade.

              Half his heart had been left to die. They _should_ be afraid of him. But that would be addressed later.

              Fenris stepped into the courtyard, thankfully not attracting attention from all of Skyhold, just those who could see the lyrium markings on his skin. He looked at Charlotte whose eyes were roaming the fortress. She blinked, her green eyes full of wonder.

              “The castle is so _big!”_ she said in delight, smiling at him.

              A soldier walked up to them and Charlotte became quiet, pressing her face in Fenris’ cloak. The man was all formality, hitting a clenched fist to his breast in salute. “The Inquisitor has been informed of your arrival.”

              Fenris thanked the man, but he remained, glancing at Charlotte in confusion.

              “She is with me.” Fenris clarified.

              "It's just that we weren't told of your companion. Normally we are." Was the soldier’s reply. Fenris could feel the hair on his arms stand on end, holding back a cutting retort in exchange for the truth.

              "She is my _daughter_." Fenris simmered, making sure to add the bite in his voice. He decides against politeness, even as Lottie rested her face in the crook of his neck. “Are you so afraid of a child? Do you expect me to—” he stopped mid-insult, distracted by the familiar figure in the distance. Several people trailed behind the dwarf, one of them Fenris recognized in particular.

              "Making an impression, are we?" Varric called to him. Fenris glared at the soldier, who didn’t bother to stand in his way, before walking towards his old friend.

              “It’s good to see you, Varric.” He greeted tersely, still irritated by the guard. He shook Varric’s hand.

              “You too, broody.” He agreed. Fenris noted the exhaustion etched in his friend’s expression. He looked solemn, in fact, this was the first time he realized Varric looked _old._

              "Fenris," Cullen greeted as they approached. The Commander made the soldier apologize before leaving, and then held out his hand. The elf shook it after a brief pause. Varric stood next to him – Fenris couldn’t decide if he felt supported or supervised.

              "He's the Commander now," Varric smirked, and Fenris raised his brow.

              "Ah. Commander Cullen, then. It has been some time."

              Cullen nodded, looking contrite. "Apologies about the soldier's behavior. He just joined this week and is normally with a captain.”

              "So your Inquisition is not all blessed with his happy manners, then. Good to know." Fenris said, with no thought to his words before they had already left his mouth. He paused, a little surprised at his own temper. It had been a long time since he felt so on edge.

              There was a pause before Varric started laughing. An unknown Dalish elf standing next to Cullen chimed in with his own laughter. A human woman who stood on the opposite side of the commander did not. To tell the truth, Fenris felt bad. But he got enough ogling from the tattoos; he didn't need someone thinking he had stolen his own child.

              "I did not mean to say--" he tried to clarify but the Dalish elf waved his hands in dismissal. Fenris spied the brilliant green light on one of the man's palms, and he tightened his grip on Charlotte.

              "This is Inquisitor Lavellan," Varric introduced, “and Inquisitor Trevelyan is here.” He gestured to the darker skinned human woman who stepped forward with a tense smile. Fenris felt his gut clench.

              "I have heard stories.” Fenris started, his voice measured. “I believe we need to speak in private, Inquisitors." Trevelyan seemed to understand immediately because she gave him a small nod. Their exchange was cut short when Charlotte stirred in Fenris' arms, turning to look at the group.

              "And who is this?" Lavellan smiled, and Fenris' daughter blinked, letting the Inquisitors look at her properly: the green eyes, the dark disheveled hair, the unmistakably elven ears, and all at once it seemed to click. Lavellan’s jaw clenched, and Trevelyan's eyes went wide. Trevelyan stood up straight, looking at Fenris.

              "Her name is Charlotte." He said.

              Lavellan continued to look tense, but Trevelyan paled, making her complexion look nearer in color to her light hair. She stuttered. "I-I did not realize that you..."

              "She is Hawke's child." He clarified, knowing the mistake was surprisingly common. Looking at Lottie’s eyes was enough of a hint that Fenris was the father. Clearly she already figured that part out, because she simply shook her head.

              "I know. It’s just that the Champion didn't tell me. Didn’t tell us." She amended, her eyes momentarily meeting Levellan’s.

              "I am unsurprised." He said, his voice tight.

              Cullen cleared his throat. “When is her name-day?” he asked, curiosity on the Commander’s face.

              “the Fifth of Wintermarch, 9:38 Dragon.”

              He decided to bring Charlotte with him on his travels despite her young age, as he knew he was going in areas less populated and could protect her if anything were to go wrong. Most people steered clear of him regardless.

              "Uncle Varric!" Charlotte cried out suddenly, everyone jumping at the child's shrill excitement.

              "What you didn't see me here before, kid?" Varric acted wounded as Fenris lowered her into the dwarf's arms.

              "Not everyone is always watching where they step." Fenris smirked.

              "Gee, I've never heard that one before.” He said, and then made a face at Charlotte when she was securely in his arms. “My my, have you ever grown!”

              “Jealous?” Lavellan offered and Varric scoffed.

              “I wasn’t aware today was ‘make fun of the dwarf’ day!” he exclaimed, some of the exhaustion clearing from his face. Trevelyan blinked, surprised at the change. Varric looked to Fenris, unaware of her gaze. “I can take care of Lottie from here. Want me to show you around?”

              Fenris shook his head. “I would like to speak with the Inquisitors before anything else. Will you watch her for me?” He didn’t miss the way Cullen clenched his jaw, his eyes flickering from Fenris to both of the Inquisitors.

              Varric smiled as Charlotte inspected the ring on his necklace. “No problem.”

              Trevelyan nodded again, feeling practically mechanical. Lavellan gestured with his unmarked hand to walk with them back to the war table.

              They crossed the main hall with little ceremony, Lavellan leading them through Josephine’s office and up the stairs. Fenris watched the enormous door scrape open, following them into the well-lit room. At the war table, the Ambassador was speaking with Leliana, and a man in blue-silver armor.

              “Alistair, I thought you were with the other Wardens,” Trevelyan said, surprise in her voice. Cullen rounded the table and spoke quietly with Leliana.

              Alistair turned toward the entering party. “Ah, well, I _was_ but I started feeling more like a babysitter so I decided to take a walk instead.” he explained, smiling easily enough at the three of them, despite not knowing Fenris. When Alistair's eyes land on him, the Grey Warden speaks, “Forgive me, I don’t think we’ve met.” 

              “I am Fenris.” He introduced himself, knowing Alistair’s name from Hawke’s letters. He watched Alistair’s smile slowly die, his expression suddenly sinking into grief.

              “I see.” Alistair paused. “I suppose the Champion—”

              “You can refer to her as Hawke. It is much easier.” Fenris interrupted. He was tired of hearing everyone call her the Champion as if they were one and the same. He understood why it was used, but it was from fame. That wasn’t Hawke, not truly. She wasn’t a symbol or a saint, she was a person.

              “Of course. Hawke must have mentioned we were working together, then.” Alistair said, playing with a clasp on his gauntlet. Lavellan moved to stand on the left side of the war table, near Cullen. “She speaks fondly of you.” Alistair said, and then they stood in silence for a moment, with the Grey Warden scratching the back of his neck, unsure of how to continue. “If there’s anything I can – if I could…” he sighed. “Forgive me.”

              “Alistair, perhaps it would be wise to describe the events at Adamant Fortress.” Leliana suggested. Trevelyan nodded in agreement, taking her place opposite of Lavellan at the table.

              “Right.” Alistair sounded relieved that his old friend stepped in. He gave a rundown of the events leading up to the battle at Adamant, despite Fenris already hearing most of the facts in Hawke’s previous letters. However, Fenris felt his gut clench when Alistair began recounting how they had fallen into the raw fade through a rift.

              “Who else was with you?” Fenris asked, interrupting Alistair while he gathered his thoughts.

              Trevelyan stepped in. “Our companions were with us as well.” She looked thoughtful for a moment, “Dorian, Cassandra…” and then turned to Cullen for help. He briefly flipped through past documents on the table, trying to remember.

              “We brought Cole.” Lavellan spoke first, and she met his eyes, nodding in agreement. When it was quiet again, Trevelyan urged Alistair to continue. He was quite thorough in his descriptions, only pausing to answer occasional questions. But he eventually reached the conclusion of the story and Fenris forced himself to remain still as stone.

              “One of us had to stay behind.” Alistair spoke softer than before. “I’m sorry.”

              Fenris rested his hands on the war table – a statue amongst the living. He could hear his own pulse thrumming in his neck, in his ears. He did not move.

Fenris found the strength to speak again after a long time, no longer afraid that it would falter with emotion. “I understand.” He said simply, for there was nothing else to say. He looked up at the Inquisitors. “Lavellan. Trevelyan.”

              “Yes?” Lavellan replied.

“Can either of you open rifts as you please?”

              Cullen shared a glance with Trevelyan momentarily.   

              “Theoretically, yes. Why?” He spoke hesitantly.

             “Is it possible to physically enter the Fade again?” Fenris asked, and Trevelyan blinked.

              “H-hold on, you can’t be seriously considering – wait, unless I’m misunderstanding, which happens a lot.” Alistair stood in disbelief. “You want to go back in there?”

              “There’s enough mayhem in the world as it is, are you seriously implying we start _opening_ fade rifts?” Cullen practically shouted over the other advisors as they voiced their shock.

              Fenris tried to explain himself but everyone’s voices carried too loudly in the room. Lavellan tried to silence the group, but it was no use.

              Fenris stood there as unknowns denied him, and how it was impossible, how he would die, how he would bring another demon into the real world and finally –

              He could not take it. He wouldn’t.

              He felt the tingle of lyrium lighting under his skin, drawing the strength from reserves long gone dormant. He swung his cape to reveal his hand, making a motion that cut the air in front of him. His gauntlet glimmered in the sunlight that filtered in through the stained glass, his fingers and wrist alight with lyrium, and the red cloth tied dutifully to his wrist. He brought his fist down hard on the table in front of him.

              “ _Listen to me!”_ he roared, his voice deeper, rougher, and louder than the crowd that stood before him. Lavellan was the only one who didn’t flinch. Fenris waited as they turned to him, surprised at the interruption – but surprised moreso that someone that seemed so reserved could yell at such a volume. Fenris regained his composure, ignoring the pressure that had built at his temples with the effort. He had to remain calm amongst these strangers – Fenris needed them to _trust him._

              “You—none of you understand.” He admits, and it is calmer now, but still rough. “You are so afraid of the breach, you are ignoring the people you have lost.” He stood straight, seeing both Cullen and Alistair with their hands on the hilts of their blades. Lavellan looked upset at the two of them, his fists clenched but he didn’t speak.

              Fenris looked to Alistair first. “Hawke told me of the Hero of Fereldan.” The words stung Alistair instantly, he could see it. “You told Hawke you would do anything to see her survive this madness. Is that not true? If she were in Hawke’s place, wouldn’t you do the same?” he asked, and Alistair didn’t hesitate in his reply.

              “I would.” He stuttered. “—do the same, I mean. In a heartbeat.”

              “And you,” Fenris glanced over to Cullen, both of them with fire in their eyes. “Would you not do it for a soldier? A friend? Anyone?” he asked, and the moment that Cullen’s eyes shift to Trevelyan, that look – it is familiar and Fenris has felt that before, known the emotion behind it. Fenris knows he does not need to elaborate.

It is a gaze he knows well.

              “Your Champion –” Fenris turned his sights at the war table, and then back up at the advisors. “is not the Champion any longer. Hawke was not meant to be a martyr.” He paused, thinking of the look on his friend’s face when he entered Skyhold and the grief that trapped him. “Varric tried to hide her from you because he _knew_ this would happen. He _knew_ she would die protecting your Inquisition, and so did I.” He spat, and then looked at Trevelyan. “You saw it, didn’t you? The uncertainty? The fear?” Trevelyan looked straight at him, but he saw the hesitation there. The guilt. It burned her.

              “That is the _real_ Hawke. _”_ Fenris straightened up, his heart feeling as if it was being squeezed. He paused, and then looked to Lavellan. “You may continue on your current path if you wish Inquisitors,” but I will warn you,” he glanced at Trevelyan, then at Cullen “– your actions will kill your allies.”

              Cullen’s frown looked as if it had been permanently etched into his features. He took his hand away from his sword for the first time since the start of the meeting, looking down at the scattered pieces of the war table.

              “I will not allow Hawke to have such a fate.” Fenris declared. “She deserves better than an eternity with a monster in the fade. I will go in alone if I have to, it does not matter. I will retrieve Hawke if it is the last thing I do.”

              He breathed once. Twice. There is no response as Fenris’ head cleared. He reigned in his frustrations to hear a proper response.

              “I will open the rift at Adamant.” Trevelyan announced. Cullen’s expression immediately changed to that of agony.

              “Lady Trevelyan.” He said, and she looked at him.

              “We are responsible, Commander.” She retorted, and then glanced at Lavellan who gave her a firm nod. She looked down at the anchor on her palm. “Don’t you see? If it had been Alistair, we would be faced with the Hero of Fereldan demanding the same thing.”

              Alistair let out a pained laugh. “I’m too old to be teased, Inquisitor.”

              “Then it’s settled.” Lavellan declared. “We will gather a few companions, and we will travel to the Western Approach in the morning.”

              “I’m going with you.” Alistair said, but was met with frowns.

              “No.” Fenris said automatically, and realized it was at the same time as Trevelyan was raising her voice to say “Absolutely not!”

              They looked at each other, a queer pause between them before they returned their gazes back at Alistair.

              “Look, I worked with Hawke and yes, it’s as you’ve said. If things had been different, Hawke would do the same thing.” He insisted, “I won’t sit idle while you go jumping into a glowy green rifty thingy.”

              “Tactfully put, Alistair.” Leliana commented.

              “I don’t have to spell it out for them to understand!” Alistair said defensively, and then looked back at Fenris. “I want to help fix this. Besides, if I don’t I’m sure the great Hero of Fereldan will find a way to twist my arm.”

              “It’s true that her strength could never be matched.” Leliana joked, and Alistair sounded exhasperated.

              “Maker, Leliana, you know that she’s an _archer!”_

 

* * *

 

              Fenris retreated from the war table a little lighter than he had been before. He had both of the Inquisitor’s word – they would open a breach at Adamant Fortress so Fenris could retrieve Hawke. That did not necessarily mean he was relieved, however. It was not a guarantee that they would end up in the same place – but Fenris _hoped._ His next stop would be to speak with Varric.

              Although the throne hall was mainly furnished with Free Marches décor, Varric had created a small place near the front door that closely resembled his old room in the Hanged Man. The fireplace cast shadows along the opposite wall. He spotted Varric with Charlotte in his lap, pointing out Bianca’s various joints and springs.

              “—and _this_ is how you fire one of the arrows,”

              “Papa!” Charlotte called, seeing Fenris approach. He quirked a smile, reaching for her hand as she laughed in delight. “Uncle Varric wants to get me a crossbow!”

              Fenris raised his brow. “I did not think Uncle Varric wanted a sidekick that badly.”

              “Even sidekicks need sidekicks.” Varric said, setting Charlotte down on her feet. “Unfortunately, she’s much more inclined towards the big pointy swords.” He smirked. “I wonder where she gets that from.”

              Fenris let out a ghost of a laugh. “I wouldn’t know.”

              “Oh well,” Varric sighed, stretching out in his chair. “I’ll have to find someone else to be my protégé. Take a seat, Broody.”

              Fenris sat in the chair closest to the head of the table, on Varric’s left. Charlotte immediately motioned for her father to pick her up, so he reached forward and set her on his lap. The both of them sat in silence for a while, Charlotte playing with one of Fenris’ gauntlets.

              “How was she?” Fenris asked, glancing up at Varric momentarily and then back down at Charlotte. “I fear Hawke does not tell me her struggles in her letters. It is different when she speaks face to face.” He smiles briefly, but it is a sad thing. “It is more difficult for her – to hide how she feels.”

              Varric folded his hands together and shook his head. “She was tired,” and Fenris looked up at his old friend, whose eyes were creased with worry. “Frustrated.” Varric took pause, his expression torn. He scratched at the stubble on his face. “Funny thing is that she was more concerned for _me._ Can you imagine?”

              Charlotte fiddled with the red fabric tied around Fenris’ gauntlet, momentarily reaching up to the feathers at his elbow. “Birdy.” She spoke to no one in particular, busying herself with brushing the feathers into place.

              “All of us know you miss Kirkwall, Varric. It is no secret.” Fenris amended, readjusting Charlotte in his lap. She let out a noise of protest when he moved his arm, and so he returned it within her reach, allowing her to distract herself again.

              “That’s not it, though.” Varric sighed, and again, the expression earlier passed across his features.

              “What’s bothering you?” Fenris asked, his voice a bit softer than before, and much quieter. Charlotte glanced up at her father, then over to Varric. She squirmed, and Fenris let her down, watching as she crossed over to the dwarf to take his hand.

              She did not say anything at first, simply holding Varric’s hand in her own. His fingers were bulky and short, both of her hands fitting neatly into his palm. “Papa will help with the hurt.” She said, and glances back at Fenris. “Mama told me that when she’s sad, she tells papa and he makes her happy again.”

              “Your father is much nicer to your mother than he is to me.” Varric joked and Charlotte looked back at Fenris, horrified.

              “Papa!” she exclaimed, but Varric laughed and she looked back at the dwarf to smile with him. Varric lifted her up into his lap again, while Fenris smiled, his eyes filled with something lighter, more relaxed.

              But Fenris could see Varric struggling to decide on what to say next. When the dwarf decided to choose a joke over the truth, Fenris knew – but he expected no less.

And he allowed the peace of momentary happiness to let them hope.

  

* * *

 

              The echo of children’s laughter was soft in Hawke’s ears as she slept. She floated aimlessly in a dream too dark to see, unable to move. She felt peaceful, her arms and legs limp at her sides. She could no longer feel the strain of her muscles from fighting the nightmare. But the children’s cooes and giggles became too loud to bear, and a scream made her wake with a start.

              She only had time to turn to her side when she emptied the contents of her stomach. Hawke didn’t open her eyes, but she knew she was back in the raw fade. She felt a hand brush on her back as she spit out the remaining acidic taste.

              “You have to go.” He told her, and she doesn’t have to turn to know it’s the ghost of Malcolm who speaks.

              “Where.” She hissed. “I’m stuck here, and those nice memories aren’t going to keep me sane forever.”

              “I will show you, but you have to get up.” He replied.

              Hawke’s weight rested on her forearms, and she clenched her fists in frustration. She closed her eyes to stop the sting of tears behind her eyes, both from despair and from vomiting. “I’m so tired.” Hawke’s voice sounded small. It was terrible how after all this time, she still felt like a child in front of him.

              “You must stand on your own, heart. Now, before it’s too late.”

              Hawke tried to bolster her courage, tried to remember how close she was to giving up in Kirkwall and didn’t. She remembered Fenris, and she stood.

              “Follow me.” Malcolm said, and she turned to see him walking down a craggy path.

              Hawke followed him, every muscle in her leg protesting every step forward. She realized that he’s bringing her back through the path she took with the others.

              “Where are we going?” she asked, already breathless. Hawke suspected she bruised her ribcage from the last fight because she couldn’t seem to find enough air to keep up with her father. “And why are you so fast? Aren’t you dead?” she gasped. “Am I really slower than a dead person?”

              “This way,” he replied, “I can feel it,” he continued.

              “Feel?” she asked, but the question was completely muted by the sound of a nearby terror demon’s screech. Hawke stopped to take her staff off her back, throwing freezing magic at the demon as she ran.

              As she followed Malcolm around a cliffside, she was momentarily startled by another terror demon, who quickly slammed her in the chest, propelling her backwards. Hawke managed to stay standing but her breath only managed to return in short gasps. Her lungs felt tight and useless.

              She only had time to panic for a second before instinct took over, and she used mind blast, staggering the demon long enough for her to freeze it and break it in half with her staff.

              “Hey!” she called, coughing into her hand and seeing blood. Hawke tried to catch her breath, unable to shake the feeling that the ghost of her father had finally truly abandoned her.

              “I’m here, heart.” Malcolm called from the bottom of a staircase. She quickly met him where he stood and he looked truly worried. “Are you alright?” he asked.

              “You left me to fight them alone.” She tried not to sound too angry, though admittedly, she felt that she had the right to be a little pissed off.

              “I’m sorry. I can’t fight anything in here, I’m just a spirit.” Malcolm said, remorse etched in his features. “I wish I could…”

              “There’s no use in discussing it now,” Hawke replied, putting a hand on her hip as she caught her breath again. “We should keep moving, I suppose,” she added, but Malcolm stepped in front of her.

              “Before we do,” he hesitated, and she searched his face for an answer. “Let me explain now.”

              “What is it?”

              “It’s an eluvian.”

              Hawke gawked at him. “You mean one of the mirrors that manifested spiders earlier? No thank you –”

              “This one is finicky. I’ve been watching it for some time. It opens for only a moment and then it shuts again.” He said. “I know it will open and that moment is very soon, but you must act quickly.”

              There was a long pause as she scrutinized his features, and then a look of understanding passed over her own features. “This was always your plan.”

              “It was.”

              “You were letting me rest because you were counting when it opens and for how long it remains open.”

              “I was.”

              “Where does it lead?”

              “The Crossroads.”

              “Will I be spliced in half?” she asked, because the thought crossed her mind, and it would be a very terrible way to die.

              “No. But when I tell you to enter, you must trust me.” His eyes don’t falter when they meet hers. “Promise me.”

              Hawke felt her throat clench. Part of her didn’t want to trust the spirit in front of her but the other half was arguing vehemently. What else could she do? Where else could she go?

              What did she truly have to lose?

              “I promise.” She choked on her words. “What will happen to you?”

              “I will rejoin your mother.” He smiled, and Hawke was caught so completely off-guard that she felt a sudden crushing weight on her chest at his words. She let out only one sob, clapping her hand over her mouth to silence it, trying to regain her composure.

              She missed them all so terribly.

              “We have to go now, it will open soon.” Malcolm urged. “Terror demons might try to fight you but we must stand close enough to the eluvian for you to jump in. I will be nearby and I will tell you when. Do you understand?”

              “Yes.”

              “Let’s go.”

              “Papa,” she said, in a moment of weakness. Hawke’s lip quivered, unsure. She does not know if she will survive this. “I love you.”

              His expression grew softer at her words. Malcolm smiled, giving her a simple reply. "I am always with you."

 


	4. Chapter 4

_“I need the clouds to cover me_   
_Pulling them down, surround me_   
_Without your love I'll be_   
_So long and lost, are you missing me?”_

 

* * *

 

 

              The morning air was always cold by the docks. It was a stark contrast to the daytime, when the sun was unbearably hot, and it warmed the Kirkwall streets. The cool night air would settle after the sun had set, and a layer of fog would always appear near dawn.

              It had rained during the night, and Merrill found herself hopping over puddles as she travelled back to the Alienage after having gone to the markets for yarn. Merrill waved to the few other elves walking around the vhenadahl, readying their shops for the day or just making idle conversation. The giant tree’s leaves made no noise while Merrill walked by, and she noted how peculiar it was to be silent. Being so close to the ocean, she had come to expect the water to carry a constant breeze into the city.

              She unlocked the front door to her home and closed the door, rounding the corner into her room and came to a full stop, the basket in her arms falling uselessly to the floor.

            “By the lost Dales!” she cried out, her eyes locked onto a crumpled figure at the foot of her eluvian. She did not have to approach the body to know who it was, but her immediate recognition was the reason she was thrown into a panic.

Merrill ran over, got on her knees and used all her strength to turn the person onto their back. “Hawke! Can you hear me?!” she called, and felt her heartbeat quicken when her friend did not respond. Merrill pressed her fingers to Hawke’s neck and felt a pulse thankfully, but her relief still felt short-lived.

She turned Hawke’s face so that she could see it properly, and noticed the smeared blood along her nose, cheek, and jaw. “Mythal’enaste! What did you get yourself into!” Merrill wailed as she noticed more and more wounds on her body.

Suddenly, a knock came at her door and Merrill checked Hawke’s pulse one last time before she sprinted to the door, throwing it open.

Tomwise stood stunned at the front of her house.

“Tomwise!” she practically shouted at his face. “I’m sorry I’m shouting!” she amended but continued at the same volume as before. “I need you to go get Aveline immediately!”

“Wh—?” Tomwise replied, unable to comprehend the sudden change of events.

She clapped a hand on his shoulder and he blinked like a halla shot by an arrow. “Run to the barracks, get Aveline,” she thought to the recent help the Inquisition had given Kirkwall in an attempt to rebuild the city after the rebellion. “Tell her to bring that Inquisition recruit that helped us the other day – the one that knows medicine!”

“Right away!” he turned on his heels and raced toward the Viscount’s Keep.

“And get Orana!” she shouted after him, and once she heard him yell his affirmation, she closed the door and returned to Hawke’s side. Merrill felt Hawke’s pulse again. Still beating.

She stood up and grabbed the elfroot from one of her chests, preparing to mix potions and salves.

“Stay with me, lethallan.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was calm as the sun started to settle beneath the horizon. Warmth would always spread across the sky from the west, painting Skyhold in a wash of orange. The pines within the castle’s inner walls bristled as the last of the wind died down.

Cole sat on a low brick wall framing the battlements, and watched.

Only for a moment, something passed his vision. Imaginings – perhaps to someone else, but not to Cole – and he stood.

He was the only one to bear witness, but he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt—He had to tell someone, quickly. He would never mistake such a thing.

 

There, in the golden light of the sun, a movement between the Fade and reality. It was a feeling so strong it manifested itself clearly.

 

 

A fledgling escaped the shadows.

 

* * *

 

Fenris left Charlotte with Varric to explore more of Skyhold. Hawke’s letters had detailed the layout and staff to him quite thoroughly; complete with remarks about the company she had shared. Some of it had been serious – most of it was Hawke letting her silver tongue translate on paper. She had spent the majority of her time getting to know the Inquisitor’s companions, and Fenris had been admittedly curious to see them for himself.

His first stop was through the door near Varric’s table, which lead him into Solas’ study.

Fenris noticed the elf standing in front of a table with several books opened, and a glowing fragment he assumed was imbued with magic he did not understand. Upon walking out from the shadow of the alcove, Solas turned towards him. It was easy to surmise that he was an apostate, just like Inquisitor Trevelyan. Like Hawke. Varric had told Fenris as much before he walked in. Still, the lyrium in his skin made sure to remind him of the fact.

Solas’ expression was unreadable, and Fenris did not feel the need to speak.

“I was curious to see if you’d come to investigate me.” Solas spoke first. Fenris couldn’t help but let his expression slide into a frown. He realized, belatedly, how much he did not want to speak to this man.

“I am not considering anyone in particular.” Fenris replied, his voice measured.

“I would not assume such a thing. You are here for Hawke, nothing more.” Solas amended. “She told me of your recent endeavors. You spent time killing slavers who pray on the refugees.”

“And if the opportunity arises, I will gladly continue to do so.”

“Do you seek their freedom? The refugees?” Solas asked, and Fenris didn’t like where the conversation was headed.

“I seek the death of slavers, anything else is not my concern.” Fenris had trouble controlling the bite in his words. “Nor yours.”

“My goal isn’t to offend. I was just pointing out that your accomplishments deserve recognition.”

“I do not need praise from a perfect stranger, least of all an apostate.” Fenris’ voice had turned caustic. Solas didn’t seem to be bothered by the change, and before he could reply, someone interrupted.

“Solas,” Lavellan called, walking into the rotunda from another alcove that held a spiralling staircase.

“Lethallin.” Solas addressed the Inquisitor, and Fenris looked between the two. He noted Solas’ use of elven, and supposed it was only natural for the Inquisitors to grow close to their companions, but something about Hawke’s intuition and Solas’ inexplicable countenance –

“Inquisitor Trevelyan was supposed to come by to speak with you about opening another rift. Did she visit?” Lavellan asked.

Solas replied, “Not as of yet, no.”

            Lavellan was standing with his hands behind his back, which Fenris started to assume was the Inquisitor’s natural posture. “She might be with Dagna, give her a bit longer. I would offer to help but…” he looked apologetically at the mage.

“It is no bother. Your skills lie elsewhere.”

The two of them become quiet, and then Lavellan looks to Fenris. “I’m going to speak to some of the others outside. Care to join me, Fenris?”

Fenris felt particularly finished with Solas, and was hoping for a way to escape. “Lead the way.”

 

 

            Once the Inquisitor had said his goodbye, he led Fenris through a third door coming from the alcove that brought them outside.

“I have to say, that makes the list of the most glacial conversations I've ever witnessed.” Lavellan said, striving for lightness.

“Were you present for its entirety?” Fenris asked, still feeling irritated but much less so, now that he was away from the apostate.

“I was. The rotunda goes up two flights of stairs – I was on the second floor by the library. Voices tend to carry,” Lavellan smiled, and lead the way across the walkways between towers. “When Hawke was here, she spent the majority of her time up here,” he gestured to the fortress’ ramparts. From where they stood, Fenris could hear the deafening sound of the wind, and see the unending landscape of snow-topped mountains in the distance.

“Did you speak to her often? Before Adamant?” Fenris asked.

Lavellan looked down at his feet and then over at Fenris, “Yes, or, I tried to.” He elucidated, “Her mind always seemed elsewhere.”

Fenris’ throat constricted, and he felt his stomach drop.

“She speaks fondly of you.” Lavellan says, and Fenris noticed the change from ‘spoke’ to ‘speak’. Clearly the Inquisitor still believed Hawke was alive.

Fenris heard the door behind them open up, and he turned to see Inquisitor Trevelyan looking at him.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said first, fingers impulsively threading in her own hair.

“It’s not a problem,” Inquisitor Lavellan replied easily, but he frowned upon studying her expression a bit closer. “What’s the matter?”

There is hesitation as Trevelyan does not look away from Fenris.

“If you wish to speak to me –” Fenris started.

“We cannot go to Adamant,” Trevelyan interrupted him, and then swallowed once.

Fenris considered himself good at reading people who lied to him, so he studied the honesty in her eyes and tried for patience. “Explain.” Was his curt reply.

“It’s Cole,” she finally looked at Lavellan for support. “I went to the stables so I could prepare the necessary equipment for tomorrow and he suddenly appeared.”

“He said something?” Lavellan asked, and the urgency between them was palpable.

“Yes, he told me Hawke is not in the Fade anymore.”

Fenris felt like he had just been hit in the chest with a hammer. He had to put a hand behind him, gripping stone.

“What do you mean?” Lavellan asked, voice coming out faster than before. Trevelyan replied with equal haste.

“He told me he saw – he saw the bird,” she swallowed, and shook her head, “Never mind, it was cryptic like he always is, but I knew what he meant. He didn’t tell me he couldn’t sense her anymore because she’d expired, Cole said that she’s _left_ the Fade. She’s escaped!”

“So she’s alive?” Lavellan asked.

“Cole would have told me otherwise. She must have survived the fight with the nightmare and found another rift.”

“How?” Lavellan breathed, and Fenris is beyond capable of words at the moment, having closed his eyes in torment.

He knew what this meant, it didn’t mean she was safe, it only meant she had escaped the Fade. What if she was lying somewhere, bleeding out? What if she expended all that energy just for Fenris to get to her moments too late?

“Where does this leave us?” Fenris spoke, looking up at Trevelyan after a long pause.

“I can’t be sure until I consult with Solas.” She explained, “Theoretically she could be anywhere now, there are rifts all over Thedas.”

Fenris felt sick.

“We’ve sealed many rifts, however,” Lavellan corrected, “We should check the map, talk to Leliana and have her help us narrow the search. Mark off rifts that are sealed, and write down the ones her contacts located.”

“Right.” Trevelyan was shaking.

Lavellan held Trevelyan steady by her upper arms, “Take a deep breath, and go to the war room. I will get Solas.”

Trevelyan nodded once, hurriedly going back through the door. Lavellan looked back at Fenris.

“We’ll postpone Adamant—”

Fenris cut him off, “And how quickly will we be able to find her new location? She could be _anywhere in the continent.”_

“I’d much rather take my chances examining every blade of grass in this reality than risk one moment in the unpredictability of the Fade.” Lavellan said with such certainty, it brought a familiar ache in Fenris’ ribs. “Our chances are good, Fenris. Much better than moments ago. You must trust me.” He said.

A Champion with unwavering conviction.

Fenris had grown so used to that hope, that _belief_ –

He would not give up on finding Hawke, not when she so clearly imbued an entire army.

And not when she was counting on him to bring her home.


End file.
